


Ghost of You

by ACaseOfUnstableEmpathy



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bar fights, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Malex, Michael's a nutcase here, but he's somehow...hanging on, he's struggling to cope with everything, some fluff and softness, time intervals, what is tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 20:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20972378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACaseOfUnstableEmpathy/pseuds/ACaseOfUnstableEmpathy
Summary: The words hit him like a speeding freight train and he nearly chokes on his sip of chocolate milkshake. “What?”Isobel stares at him from across the booth, with a raised eyebrow. Liz is seated on the counter, with her legs crossed and dangling. There’s silence from both of them and beside him, Maria raises an eyebrow, “Alex is leaving today for Basic Training.”Michael Guerin feels his heart start to race and he’s speechless as the statement sinks in.Maria nods and he has to bite back every urge to scream. They can’t know. Alex wouldn’t want them to know.





	Ghost of You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello y'all.  
This was actually supposed to be a oneshot, sorely consisting of my take on Alex's departure from Michael's POV (it was also an attempt for me to see if I can write Michael; Alex is a lot easier for me). Obviously, this is not a oneshot because my brain took off running with multiple ideas for this. 
> 
> It's certainly been awhile and I apologize for that. I've been hella busy (I've started college and everything; whoop). Also, I've fallen into Roswell, New Mexico (2019) pretty hard and Tyler Blackburn has fucking stolen my heart. Oops, and Alex Manes is my beautiful, gay baby (who I shall defend at all costs). 
> 
> Playlist:  
-Ghost of You by 5 Seconds of Summer  
-That Home by The Cinematic Orchestra  
-The Resolution by Jack’s Mannequin  
-Here With Me by Susie Suh & Robert Koch  
-Over You (feat. A Great Big World) by Ingrid Michaelson  
-Power Over Me by Dermot Kennedy  
-Fuel to Fire by Agnes Obel  
-Meant to Stay Hid by SYML
> 
> Anyway, happy reading!

**Day of Alex’s departure**

* * *

The words hit him like a speeding freight-train and he nearly chokes on his sip of chocolate milkshake. “What?”

Isobel stares at him from across the booth, with a raised eyebrow. Liz is seated on the counter, with her legs crossed and dangling. There’s silence from both of them and beside him, Maria raises an eyebrow, “Alex is leaving today for Basic Training.”

Michael feels his heart start to race and he’s speechless as the statement sinks in.

Maria nods and he has to bite back every urge to scream. They can’t know. Alex wouldn’t want them to know.

He clears his throat. His mouth is dry as he finds his tongue. “I didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t think he would enlist,” Liz breathes, her head low. “I didn’t believe he _wanted_ to.”

Alex is leaving and Michael’s being left in the dust. Left to decay in old Roswell. Rosa’s death ruined any chances of a future. His full ride to UNM is gone. His stomach drops and he almost feels like he’s going to puke. Alex shouldn’t mean anything to him and it nearly pains him that this boy MEANS **_SOMETHING_**.

“He didn’t want us to come,” Maira adds. Alex has never been good with goodbyes and farewells. “His dad is joining him at Roosevelt Park at 3 pm, but his flight is at Kirkland Air Force base later on. Why-?”

It’s only 9:03 a.m. He can make it...

Albuquerque is around a three-hour drive from Roswell.

Michael stumbles out of the booth before Maria can even finish that sentence. He feels everyone’s eyes on him as he’s sprinting out of the Crashdown Cafe with his truck’s keys in hand.

Alex Manes feels too vulnerable as he slips out of the driver’s seat, with the gravel crunching beneath his weight. With fingernails that are clean of nail polish, he lacks the jewelry he normally wore. There will only be faint scars from the piercings left as a memory for the kid he once was. A layer of protection and expression is gone, forced out of him by his father’s stern and unyielding hands. Alex’s dreams of becoming a musician were erased when he enlisted and chose to follow his family’s legacy rather than create of a path of his own. A part of him doesn’t want to leave, it wants to stay as if he’s anchored here, tethered to a post that is this crusty town.

The ruthless beatings are over. Alex Manes has never been so close to obtaining the skills he needs to defend himself. He’s never truly tasted victories that seemed to swell in his heart like golden warmth.

Another car pulls into the parking lot, stopping behind him. He braces himself to see his father. Inhaling deeply, he turns around and the first thing his eyes notice is the driver. His heart skips a beat and he’s frozen. Fear is set like a wildfire, causing his thoughts to race at high speeds. He can’t processing anything, because this reality cannot be real. Caught in his tracks like a deer frozen in the headlights facing an oncoming 14-wheeler, he doesn’t know whether to run or scream.

It **_cannot_** be him that’s standing in front of him now.

Michael doesn’t know what to say. He had been relieved to find no trace of Jesse Manes when he arrived. However, his relief is shattered within a matter of split seconds. 

As soon as he sets his eyes on Alex, his sentences disappear. He blinks in disbelief. This isn’t Alex, is it? And if it is, then it certainly isn’t the Alex he’s familiar with. Everything that made Alex Manes who he was, is gone. Alex’s eyes are widened and full of pure shock and Michael can almost see the other’s mind stalling to catch up.

This isn’t _his_ Alex.

This isn’t the free-spirited boy he kissed in the UFO Museum.

“Alex?” His words are quiet and soaked in bewilderment.

It takes Alex a moment to realize that his name had been called. He shifts on his feet and looks away, refusing to make eye contact. “You shouldn’t be here, Guerin.”

Michael finds more of his courage.“ ‘shouldn’t’? Just because of your dad?”

Alex visibly winces. “You should leave before he sees you with me.”

Instead of giving into the rising fear that bubbles and stirs within him, Michael takes a single step forward.

“No,” Alex shakes his head with sharp eyes.“Go!” He points to the truck. “Get out of here!”Michael can see cracks in Alex’s facade, in the way his voice faintly trembles. But he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he advances slowly as if approaching a wounded animal.

“I’ve done enough!”

Guerin stops and the pieces click.

Alex swallows, his face suddenly void of color. He sniffles and runs a hand down his face, attempting to compose himself.

“Guerin.” It’s a warning, a sign that he’s waved the white flag in surrender.

Michael doesn’t believe it. He stumbles back a step as if hit with an invisible shove.

“You don’t have to go.” He blurts out, finding that his tongue functions again. “You can stay. You don’t have to leave.”

Jaw firmly set, Alex swallows. Michael tries not to stare at the way his Adam’s apple bobs, thinking about how his lips pressed kisses to that throat; how soft the skin was underneath his fingers.

“Alex, you don’t have to go.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. You want nothing to do with the military, I know that’s still a truth. This isn’t you speaking.”

“Guerin.”

“Don’t do this, Alex.” _Don’t do this to me._

“You don’t know me. We barely know each other.”

“I know you well enough to say that you never wanted this.”

Brown eyes find Michael’s, holding him in a wordless conversation. They’re two stubborn forces that crash and push against one another, only to repel each other. Michael tries, pleading with every aspect of him for Alex not to throw his life away. But the young human is relentless, pushed by his duty and expectations that he wants to reach now.

A breath leaves Alex’s lungs before the sound of a car pulling into the gravel lot from the back entrance of the park reaches their ears. Michael sees the way Alex’s shoulders tense as he catches the sight of his father in the passenger seat, with Flint in the driver’s seat. Jesse Manes comes in the form of danger, with his pale blue eyes narrowing at the sight of Michael. The car stops in a small cloud of dust and the sound of the lock disengaging can faintly be heard if one listens close enough.

Swallowing hard, Michael’s paralyzed as Alex walks to the door, with a hand resting on the strap of his filled backpack that he wears.

“No,” the words are a near muted whisper.

He opens the door and pauses for a moment. Michael’s heart is in his throat and he can barely afford to breathe. He’s holding his breath, waiting for that split second choice in which Alex will suddenly revert back to the boy he once knew, saying “Fuck you, Dad” and choosing to stay.

Instead, deep chestnut eyes rise to take in one last glance of Michael. The moment lingers, as if he’s trying to catalogue the other’s existence. The look in Alex’s eyes is enough to nearly bring him to the brink. The agonizing surrender, filled with years of his abusive youth culminates in those beautiful optics. Expressive and open but not completely, held back by tearing restraints. There’s an awkwardness to them as if he’s unsure if these emotions are okay to showcase to anyone, including Michael. There’s a fortified barrier that’s cracking in Alex Manes, one that’s never been truly broken before. He has only seen the result of fractures, minor leaks that have sprung from years of torment and continuous harm.

“Goodbye, Guerin.”

At that, Alex slips into the seat, shutting the door behind him. There’s no time for Michael to scramble into his truck and start the engine. The car reverses out of the parking spot and then turns towards the road. Michael finds his feet suddenly moving, scrambling and then breaking into a run in pursuit. Tears threaten to fall from his eyes. It’s even more painful that he can’t accept the pain of why he feels so destroyed over a young man he barely knew. It leaves him questioning and in absolute distress that threatens to swallow him whole.

The last glimpse Alex gets of Michael Guerin is him racing after the car, fighting to see through the dust. With curls wild and untamed and a few tears trailing down his cheeks, he appears to be some beautiful tragedy that Alex wants to comfort but he knows he’s incapable of succeeding, without endangering their safeties. 

Michael’s lungs scream for him to stop and he comes to a screeching halt. Gasping, with hands resting on his kneecaps, the back of his throat tastes coppery when he coughs. The car disappears into the distance. It is only then, when he collapses, the weight of the scene finally catching up to him and bringing him to his knees. He hits solid ground so hard that he knows there’ll be bruises, but it doesn’t matter anymore because there’s no place left for him on his damn blue planet. There’s no reason keeping him here.

* * *

**Alex's return from Basic Training**

Seated on the tailgate of his truck, Michael lets his feet dangle. His hands are blacked with motor oil from another slow day of work. The sun has just started to dip below the horizon line, casting a brilliant tiger-orange glow across New Mexico’s desert landscape. It’s isolated, but somehow, he doesn’t feel alone. There’re millions of other worlds above him just outside of Earth’s atmosphere. One of them is his; one of them is his true home.

Parked in the middle of nowhere, the stillness is immeasurable. However, it does very little to quiet his chaotic mind. The phantom ache in his left-hand arises like the slow heat of a steadily rising flame. Reaching behind him, his fingers wrap around a bottle of nail polish remover and he screws open the lid. Swallowing his first sip, he grimaces slightly at the intense burn. By the sixth sip, the throbbing in his mangled limb dissipates.

His excuse for his injury had been a drunken fight and he was fortunate that Max and Isobel didn’t think much of it. Maybe sometimes, his regular habits of lying make a proper alibi. Revealing the man responsible would have done them nothing positive and he wasn’t about to put Alex’s life in anymore danger with his father. Maybe he should have told Max, but they had been riddled with disquiet and panic, concerning Isobel. There wasn’t the need to add more stress to the dire situation.

A bird takes flight from a cactus somewhere in the distance, with it’s dark silhouette darting across the multi-colored sky. The last time he was here, Alex had accompanied him. The painful memory of his smile and laughter as Michael cracked some joke about Kyle flashes across his memory, tightening his gut into a painful knot of regret. Taking another gulp of nail-polish remover, he attempts to distract himself, but his mind is relentless in it’s torture and his thoughts cycle back.

“Goddamit,” he mutters before draining the entire bottle. His fingers itch to play the music that brought the quiet and once soothed him. As much as Alex gave, he also took away. Fury exploded in him like a fuse. This isn’t entirely Alex’s fault, yet having someone else to blame (other than himself) is sickly satisfying. The void of emptiness is a pretty pathetic substitute.

The soft crunch of gravel underneath boots soon snags his attention and he quickly stashes away the empty bottle. His awareness kicks in; he knows the dangers of being out in the desert let alone by himself. Fortunately, Michael Guerin is anything but defenseless. His mind clicks, ready to send the possible attacker back with a telekinesis wave.

“Thought I’d find out you here.” A voice says as the footsteps suddenly stop near the front of his truck. The weight of the reality is delayed and slow to settle in.

Everything comes to a screeching standstill. Disbelief is all he can feel right now. He knows that voice; it’s the one that’s haunted him for weeks. The same boyish tone, with a slight huskiness, matches the one imprinted in his brain. He swallows, before building up the courage to glance over his shoulder.

Alex Manes stands with his hands held loosely at his side, his posture straightened, shoulders slightly held back and squared. The sun’s red-orange illumination shines over the half of his features that stare at the setting ball of fire. The other section of his face is shadowed. Michael’s eyes are on him as if waiting for Alex to suddenly disappear, like the ghost that’s haunted him for months.

He’s scrambling to reach an explanation and determine if this is his reality when Alex settles his eyes on him. “What?”

It’s then that Michael finally comes to his senses and turns forward again, fighting back a wave of embarrassment. “Nothin’. I just,” he pauses. The words _‘I missed you’ _don’t seem appropriate, even though it’s the bare truth. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“Yeah well, Dad is in Roswell for business and forced me to accompany him.”

He takes note on how Guerin’s shoulders tense at the mention of his father, like an animal ready to flee and Alex quickly makes an attempt to soothe him, “He’s caught up in something so he’s not going to come looking for me.”

“Why’re you here, Alex?” Michael’s words are riddled with a bitterness that seems to be the beginning of an oncoming storm. His furor is scorching and the fire on his tongue is sharp. “Come to take something else away from me?”

Silence falls over them then. Alex raises his head at the poison that drips from the other’s last statement. His feet itch to run, to flee and leave Michael is the dust again. It would be so easy. But Alex remains anchored in Guerin’s view, his heart pounding in his chest cavity. He moves forward, feeling the stiff hazel gaze tracking each step. It’s a gutsy move for Alex to sit down on the lowered tailgate, with a reasonable space separating him from Michael. The metal creaks slightly in response to the added weight.

He’s broader then Guerin remembers. His frame is more muscled and toner and his dark hair is much shorter in length, still recovering from the required buzzcut. There’s the familiar existence of weariness in those eyes that Michael takes more notice of now.

“You still live in your truck,” Alex observes, keeping his voice near a whisper. Michael’s shocked, he blinks not sure if he’s imagining what he had just heard. He had been expecting some snappy response or for Alex to retreat. The reply he receives is different and it’s like a rather rude slap in the face. Michael had moved out of Ann Evans’ basement right after graduation. She had begged him to stay, but he had rarely stayed there in high school so he saw no point in taking up space. “Seems like nothing’s changed in this town after all.”

It’s only been a little more than 8 weeks. What the fuck did Alex expect? The world is changing around this little town and yet, Roswell remains unchanged. “You’ve changed,” Michael says, with the words suddenly flooding from his mouth without a filter.

“Have I?” The way Alex looks at him and tilts his head, makes his heart flutter andslightly soft. “Everyone keeps saying that. Maria couldn’t stop touching my arms, complementing the muscles.”

Michael gives an amused snort. Alex has always been a fit individual, but he’s never been this toned.

“So you survived the initiation, then?”

“Basic Training? Yeah. I did.” He gives a harsh laugh. “I never thought I’d say this, but seems that I actually have Dad to thank for the 13 years of kiddie torture.”

Michael can only imagine what hell Jesse Manes designed for those drills. “How is your old man anyway?” 

“Oh, the usual. But he seems a bit more tense than usual. Actually, I rarely see him.”

He lets the topic drop; there’s no good in continuing a topic that makes the both of them feel uneasy. “Do you have a place to stay?” The inquiry escapes his mouth on an impulse that suddenly seized him and he mentally kicks himself. What does he think he’s doing?

Alex raises an eyebrow with an amused expression written across his features, “What’re you implying? Surely, the back of your truck doesn’t sound inviting.”

“I know a place where you can crash.” A beat. “Do you have money on you?”

Michael pushes open the room’s door and steps inside. The stench of faint cigarette smoke makes him scrunch his nose like an offended puppy and it brings back memories of his childhood. The angry drunk who served as Michael’s guardian for a few painful years used to smoke at least 3 packs a day when he wasn’t on a bender. The sound of Alex gently shutting the door makes him jump and for a minute, he can feel eyes on him, the gaze soft and observant. “I can take the couch,” Alex is quick to offer, but Michael rebuttals,

“Nope, I got it. You’re the one paying for the room so you can get the bed.”

“Guerin, forget about it. It’s settled.” He takes a seat on the couch.

Michael huffs before heading to the bathroom with his small bag of clothes and other essentials. The door squeaks as it shuts, leaving Alex alone with his duffle bag. There’s a stack of extra towels on the bed which are neatly folded and he reaches behind him to grab the bath-towel, ignoring the way his back slightly cracks as he twists. He can hear the sound of water running from the bathroom. A curse from Michael reaches his ears and a humored smirk crosses Alex’s features. The mental image of Guerin accidentally turning the handle too far and being sprayed with scalding water amuses him. 

Steam bellows around him as he steps out, dressed in sweatpants and a loose-shirt. He’s not half-expecting to see Alex seated on the bed with his eyes closed. However, somehow Alex always seems to know when Michael’s eyes are set on him.

“You’re gawking.”

Guerin hadn’t realized it and his lack of control has him mentally rolling his eyes at his lack of awareness. Clearing his throat, he walks over with the intention of sitting of sitting next to Alex when he stands. Michael tracks his movements, eyeing the ripples of muscles move with motion. His gaze lands on the two silver dog tags with Alex’s data engraved on them, reminding him of where his allegiance lies.

** _MANES ALEX C._ **

** _015-10-2146 AF_ **

** _NO PREF._ **

The military. The government. The enemy. But Alex Manes doesn’t know about what he truly is. but even if he did, would he tell his father? Michael doesn’t know how far his loyalty runs now but if he is to guess, he’d assume that it barely scratches the middle point. Given the trauma Jesse inflicted on his son, it’s highly unlikely that Alex would forgive his father for anything.

“You’re staring.”

Michael swallows. Oh shit. He’s feeling a rush of embarrassment that he attempts to force down and bury down within his gut. “I was admiring, there’s a difference.” It’s a terrible attempt at flattery.

“You were still gawking.”

Guerin eyerolls. Alex stands before him, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Temptation seizes him and Michael realizes that it would be so easy to give in. Would Alex be surprised? He hardly doubts it and a part of him wants to find out that answer. As Alex passes him to enter the bathroom, the alien’s arm wraps around his.

“Guerin.” The Airman’s voice is low in a forewarning as he steps back and Michael can’t help the smile.

“Want me to join you?”

“No. Let go or I’ll knock you on your ass.”

Michael doesn’t doubt that, “But you’re not gonna do that, you would have done it already.”

Alex’s eyes come to settle on his, fixing him with a rigid expression that clearly translates that he doesn’t want to be tested right now. However, Guerin has always been one to test limits and he’s not about to back down now. With purposeful strides, he’s marching forward and crowding the other’s space only to press a kiss to his lips. Alex tenses and Michael feels hands on his chest. _Do it. Shove me, _his mind taunts as he remains undeterred by the possibility.

The reaction that’s given is much more satisfying. The hands drop and strain vanishes from the Airman’s shoulders as Alex responds with his lips. Michael feels a spark ignite in his core, flooding his veins with a fire that seeks to consume. Hesitancy grips him suddenly and he pulls back, resting only inches from Alex. Hands reach up, cupping his face with his calloused palms. “Is this okay?”

A steady nod is what he receives and it’s all the affirmation that he needs. Lips clash again, but this time in a heated passion before Michael shifts his attention. Letting himself wander, he presses kisses down Alex’s throat, letting hands roam through his curls. He nips at a spot just before the dip of the other’s collarbone, enjoying the slight hitch of breath that his administration causes. He pinches a nipple between his fingers, cueing a breathless moan from Alex.

“Guerin.”

“Yes, Manes?” He looks up.

“Don’t make me beg.”

“But I thought Manes men never beg,” he slots a leg between Alex’s, relishing in the noise that sounds from him. “And I am feeling tempted to test that theory.” Michael’s breath tickles his earlobe before teeth playfully nip at it. In response, the Airman has started to grind himself on the leg between his own.

“Still okay?” Guerin inquires.

A hand wraps around his small of his back, pressing him closer. “_Yes_.”

Early morning sunlight filters through the cheap blinds, cloaking the room in a golden glare. He’s slowly roused from his deep slumber with laziness lingering in his movements as he rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. A yawn surfaces and he stretches his limbs outwards, enjoying the way his muscles slightly loosen. Throwing an arm to the other side of the bed, the haze quickly flees from him as he jerks up so suddenly that his head spins. The surface is cold and the lack of warmth indicates that it’s been like that for hours. The mattress still bares the slightest indent of person having once been present. A pang resonates within him and time seems to suddenly come to a skidding halt.

He swallows hard against the painful lump in his throat as he runs his left hand across the surface of the mattress, his brain providing him with the image of his fingertips trailing down the Airman’s spine and feeling the muscles instinctively shift. But Alex Manes isn’t there to relish in Michael’s touches and gentle words that are rarely spoken between them; he’s disappeared like smoke on the wind. Kicking the covers off, he swings himself out of bed, letting his feet rest on the cheaply carpeted floor. Something white on the nightstand catches his attention and he shifts his gaze to the desk. Leaning against the lamp base is a simple white envelope with the letters M.G. scrawled in neat print.

Michael scowls before reaching his left hand towards it. Repositioning himself to rest a little more comfortably on the bed, he opens the envelope. Tears prickle at the edges of vision as removes a set of familiar tags that hang off of a silver-beaded chain. Letting it settle in the palm of his hand, he runs a thumb over the engraving before sniffling slightly and shifting his gaze to the window.

His heart throbs in his chest, pulsing like a burning coal in the center of his hand. Fury is a slowly igniting sensation that’s soon ablaze, mixed with the mingling despair and faint confusion that rests deep beneath the surface. _You’re nothing. Failure. You’ve failed. _Clenching his fist, his eyes slam shut. His power prickle like static in the atmosphere around him, being contained by one last strand of resistance. _You’ve failed, like how you failed Isobel. If it wasn’t for your stupidity, maybe she would have been sound and Rosa’s death would have been avoided. You were supposed to protect her, but you failed; just like how you failed to defend Alex._

A mental barrier seems to crumble as the lamp flies across the room, as if shoved by an invisible force. It shatters against the far wall, pieces of the porcelain raining onto the carpeted floor. He could tear this whole damn world apart if he wanted to, but he can’t reverse time. He can’t fix a fucking thing, no matter how hard he wanted to. Energy explodes from him, emitting like a shockwave. The room momentarily shakes and he can hear items breaking in the bathroom and in the room upstairs. The tiniest sense of relief from the outburst can barely be felt as a sense of extremely shortly-lived quiet settles before his brain continues it’s normal obnoxious behavior. His thoughts are screaming again, jumbled and blurring together like multiple songs playing at once.

Inhaling a shaky breath, Michael opens his eyes again. The first thing he sees are the dog tags staring back at him in the palm of his hand. He wants to hurl them across the room, burn them at the junkyard, or burry them somewhere. But maybe he is a masochist because he doesn’t settle on any of those options. Instead, he simply stands to shove them into the pocket of his jeans before getting dressed.

Setting course to his parked truck, he checks out at the front desk. Alex had intentionally left cash in the bathroom next to Michael’s toothbrush as if knowing he’d leave come morning. There’s enough for a tip but he didn’t leave one; he figures that it’ll be useful for him later. He’s in the middle of paying for the room when the muscles and joints in his left hand seizes up. He makes a pained hiss, before massaging the damaged limb.

“Are you alright, sir?”

Glancing up at the woman, his bright hazel eyes take a moment to take her in. She must be in her early 20s and if Michael hadn’t been too focused on returning to his truck to down a bottle of nail-polish remover, then maybe (just maybe) he would have tried an attempt at convincing her to spend the night with him.

“Sir?” She blinks questioning green eyes.

He swallows before nodding. “Yeah, I think I overworked my hands yesterday when I was doing transportation repairs.” The amount of fabricated honesty and casualness that he forces into his voice is nearly painful to him. As her eyes drift to his hand, he raises it to her gaze pushing aside his self-consciousness.

“Ah yeah, I was attacked by a Chupacabra.”

She gives an amused snort before completing his payment.

“Hilarious.” She sarcastically muses before giving him a gentle nod and turning around to place the room key on a hook behind her where other’s keys rest. “Have a good day, sir.”

Michael smiles lightly before departing, flexing his fingers and wincing at the ache that resonates from it. Once again, his life is dark without Alex to illuminate the thick murk that he travels in. When the Airman left for Basic Training, he had been a restless wanderer. Alcohol has always been his form of therapy and even though he’s still underage, he’s well-versed in the ways of theft. Security cameras are a useless obstacle. He’s never been caught.

However, even alcohol _can’t_ displace Alex’s ghost and his lingering presence in his mind. He’s haunted Michael for weeks and now, God knows how long it’ll be until he returns to Roswell...that is if he even comes back at all. Shaking away the thought, he opens the door to his truck. Placing one foot inside, he casts his eyes upwards. A young sun accompanied by white clouds on a blue canvas only stares back at him. If there’s a message in the sky, he has to be the one bound to understand it. Sadly, there is none, no answers to the world or the questions in his unsettled mind. There’s no such thing as a handbook titled, ‘_How To Correctly Navigate the Earth and Human Life as an Alien’_. Deeply exhaling, he hoists himself into the vehicle and starts the engine.

He feels heavy and the constant pain in his being makes him an emotional ticking time bomb. His detonation comes that night, when he drinks himself to the point of incoherence and he passes out in the trunk of his truck. Max is the one to wake him, rousing him from his slumber, instantly bombarding him with concerned questions. Michael’s too tired to be bothered and replies with a groan before shutting his eyes again.

Alex dances across his unconsciousness. The boy with a radiant soul that had graced Michael’s life and stole his heart. Alex has his usual piercings, black eyeliner, and messy hair that has a habit of sticking straight up. As he turns to face him, the silver handcuff necklace catches the sunlight for a split second. A broad grin is spread across his face as he laughs about something Michael had mentioned or stated. It’s beautiful, he remembers thinking as Alex runs a hand through his hair. His eyes had captured the sight of bruises on the human’s wrist that day, but he had chosen to keep his mouth shut. There was no sense in ruining the moment.

* * *

**Nearly 10 years later...**

_ **ROSWELL NATIVE SSGT. ALEX MANES CRITICALLY WOUNDED IN IRAQ** _

His eyes burn. Rage swells in his gut like a gurgling storm. Disbelief settled like a brick in this stomach and he feels nauseous. Stumbling up the steps of his Airstream, he bursts through the door, basically throwing himself into his mobile home before chucking the newspaper across his living space as if it had just burned him. His chest heaves like he’s been drowning. Heavy gasps rattle his frame as the world spins, making him have to brace himself on the small counter with his hands braced against the surface. Hanging his head, he slams his eyes shut. He doesn’t realize he’s crying up until he finally opens himself up to the word again. The tears make his vision blurry and he tries to wipe at them with the back of his hand. His legs give out and he hits the ground with a solid thud, but his body doesn’t even register the ache that should have originated from his backside.

Even though he’s leaning against the cabinets, he doesn’t feel more stabilized. The space is still dangerously rotating. Clenching his teeth and burying his head into his hands, he keeps his power at bay. Alex is worth the earthquake and the shattering of the earth, but Michael still has a promise to keep. If the ground splits beneath him, it’s a chance he and his home will be swallowed up. In the given moment, he couldn’t give a motherfucking shit but there’s still a very slim part of him that thinks rationally. Items rattle on the shelves as he releases small shockwaves, their strengths measured. The iridescent shard of the shattered console pulses a glow as telekinetic ripples make contact. A pencil rolls off the far counter and an empty whiskey bottle explodes, sending bits of glass everywhere. One nicks his cheek, but he remains unaffected by the sting. He doesn’t recognize the sobs that reverberate in his ears and he’s partly confused as to the origin. That is until he realizes that the noises are his own.

* * *

**Several months later...**

Tipping back another shot of tequila, Michael faintly grimaces at the burn that’s left in the aftermath. Temporary warmth settles in his stomach like a nesting avian, providing a slim sense of comfort.

“Rough day?”

He glances at Maria, her elbows resting on the counter and an inquisitive look in her eyes. “That’s one way to put it.” He slides his empty glass to her and watches as its filled. The liquid sloshes as its poured before she caps the bottle, with her hardened gaze tracking over him.

“Please don’t read me,” Michael grumbles. “I’m not in the mood to play fortune teller.” He downs the alcohol, hissing slightly as he finishes.

“You seem like you need someone to talk to, so I’m just offering an outlet.”

Michael traces his fingers across the wooden bar top, creating random patterns. “I’m fine.” He motions for another drink and his wish is fulfilled with a question, “Is anyone driving you

home?”

He downs the shot before setting it down again. He’s a regular customer at The Wild Pony, but Maria’s worried expressions are a true rarity. “Don’t worry about it.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but Hank’s voice snaps her attention away from Michael. “DeLuca, where’s my drink?” The man speaks. “Stop flirting with the cowboy and get my drink.”

Grumbling, she casts a fleeting look of concern before turning to serve Hank. If he had been drunk enough, Michael would have clocked racist Hank in the face. Hank would have had it coming. Instead, he dons his black cowboy hat before slipping out before Maria can badger him about not paying his growing bar tab. He’s too broke to even give a shit.

The door swings open with ease and the evening air brushes against his sweaty skin, making him slightly shiver. New Mexico’s nights are fairly cool and it’s almost refreshing from the sweltering temperatures that plague the daytime. As he walks, he kicks up a light cloud of dust that soon dissipates. Stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his pants, he finds that his jeans have certainly seen better days. Smeared with traces of motor oil and car paint, the main color of dark blue has started to fade from too many washes.

Keys jingle as he fishes them out his pocket and selects the key that belongs to his truck. Unlocking the front door and slipping in, he huffs staring out onto the slightly crowded parking lot. His car’s engine rumbles to life as he inserts and turns the key before pulling out and diving off into the night.

He’s about five minutes from his Airstream when he catches the sight of flashing lights in his rear view mirror.“Oh for fuck’s sake,” grumbles Michael as he puts on his hazard lights and pulls over to the shoulder of the road with the police vehicle following. Michael used to be a pro at outrunning law enforcement; he knows these backroads like the back of his hand, but his truck has seen better days and high-speed chases aren’t her thing anymore.

Taking off his hat and placing it in the passenger seat, he fishes out his wallet from his back pocket. A string of curses flood from him muttered under his breath. This is the fucking last thing he needs. Rolling down the window, he’s met with the direct stream of blinding light from a flashlight. He squints in response and his annoyance builds. “Do you fucking mind?” He throws a glare the officer.

“How much have you had to drink?” It’s a female’s stern voice, but he doesn’t recognize it as Sheriff Valenti’s.

“My eyes hurt.”

“Answer the question.”

“Look, officer, I don’t hava clue why you’ve pulled me over. I’m driving sober.”

“My partner’s concerned.”

“Your partner?” He’s about to throw another snarky comment in her face when she steps aside and a familiar face walks into his view. Max Evans and his beige cowboy hat is peering at him with his flashlight held at an appropriate level. Those dammed puppy eyes and a clean-shaven face looms in his vision. Michael exhales, rolling his eyes and raising an eyebrow. Dressed in his uniform, Max looks professional with his badge pinned and a belt containing a gun, taser, and baton. A radio is clipped to the label of his coat and if one listens closely, they can hear the faint chatter from the interconnecting signals.

“Let me guess,” Michael breaks the silence. “DeLuca called you?” His brother’s eyes answer his question before he even replies.

“She was concerned, Michael.” Max breathes.

“So what? You’re gonna escort me home?”

“Oh, I sure as hell hope not.” The female says and Michael finally gets a decent look. Her blonde hair is tied in a neat ponytail that’s resting over her shoulder. Black mascara adds flare to her sharp eyes. She’s beautiful and Michael’s gaze takes her in, paying particular attention to how her uniform fits her slender form.

“Well,” he sticks his head out of his window. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe you could even share a beer or two.” He’s ogling her and Max resists the urge to face palm. Those who have attempted to improperly whoo Jenna Cameron risked a sprained or broken wrist.

“She’s flay you alive, man,” Max whispers as he leans into his brother.

“Stop,” Michael replies, slapping him with the back of his hand. “Quit trying to ruin my chances.”

“I’m not kidding. The last man ended up with two broken ribs.”

There’s a pause before Michael gives a subtle nod. “Fair enough.”

Max clears his throat, pulling away slightly. “You sure you don’t need an escort home so you don’t accidentally plow into a tree?”

“Max, I’m good.”

His brother has never been one to take ‘no’ for an answer when he’s determined. “Are you really?”

“I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be?” He smiles, hoping that Max won’t realize that it’s forced.

“It’s _that_ date again. It’s coming up soon.”

“If you think _that’s_ what’s causing me to drink, then you’ve been really missing out.” His self-destructive methods have piled up reasons on their existence; faults that weren’t his own, but he still carries guilts like how Atlas carries the Earth. “I hate to break it to you Max, but my habits are nothing new.”

Max hasn’t been deeply involved in his life for years and technically speaking, they aren’t exactly brothers so Michael sees no reason to share every minute of his life with him.

Mistakes had been made along the way, breaking the bond they once have and ultimately destroying the tether between them.

“Michael.” Max tries, kindness flooding his tone as he drops his cop mask.

“Drop it,” Michael snaps. He fights back the urge to throw him back with a telekinetic blast. “Now if you’re not gonna ticket me or throw me into the drunk tank, move.” Max steps back from the car, walking back to join Jenna with a slightly defeated look written across his features.

Pulling up in front of his Airstream, he slides out of the driver’s seat. Michael’s feet touch the earth and a shockwave of energy ripples from him, displacing pellets of gravel. He unlocks the door to his home and shuts the door behind him with a rather loud bang that resonates in his ears. Grabbing fistfuls of his curls, he sits down on his bed, with a shaky exhale. He can feel a scream perched at the very edge of his control, teetering on release. Clenching his hair tighter, the burn intensifies, providing at least something else to focus on other than the chaos within him.

Tears prickle at the edges of his vision and he grabs a bottle off of the counter beside him. After taking a long chug of whiskey, he exhales setting the bottle between his legs and slowly letting his fingers untangle from his hair. His left-hand trembles and painfully cramps, causing him to flex the mangled fingers. Scars twist around each digit and uneven bones create subtle divots. A reminder that time doesn’t heal all wounds. His fingers itch for the comfort of a guitar and his ears long to hear strumming. But he can’t; he hasn’t played in five agonizing years.

His eyes wander to the walls, finding a few pictures still clinging to the surface. Among the scattered mess of notes and sketches that rest on the far counter, a scattered collection of more photos rest there. A memorial for the times he had in high school, memories that seem to be of another lifetime. Craning his body slightly to glance behind him, he takes in the images there as well.

A younger version of him and his siblings, laughing at Maria before she took the picture, stares back at him.. Max wears a backwards baseball cap that at least protects his neck from the powerful desert sun. His arm is draped around Isobel’s shoulders with a wide grin. Her blonde hair is braided with a few flyaways blowing in the breeze and her makeup is absolutely perfect.Finally, there’s Michael, with more of a baby face and shorter curls. All three of them have life that twinkles in their eyes, the natural flame of wonder that shone so brightly back then.

The next photo makes his heart clench. There’re two boys in the frame. One of them is a smiling version of him, wearing a cap backwards with a guitar resting in front of him. Beside him stands a boy similar in height. With black painted nails and matching eyeliner, the septum piercing and the single small silver hoop earring, creates a very bold and confident statement.

Ringed fingers grip the neck of a guitar while the other hand touches the strings. His head is bowed, concentrated on the sound of the instrument. Alex Manes was always a spectacle to behold and back then, Michael always found himself gravitating towards him. Tearing his gaze away, Michael takes another swig of alcohol, shoving the memory into the back burner.

The anniversary of Alex’s enlistment is creeping up, advancing on him like a stalking lion to an unfortunate antelope. The violent pangs in his stomach is an anchor that tethers him to the reality that he wishes isn’t real. Finishing the whiskey bottle, he summons another bottle with a simple thought. The object rises from its place on the counter before floating in his open hand, with his fingers easily accepting its neck. Popping off the cap, he takes another long swig. A long night of restlessness rests ahead of him and he’s not in the right mindset to busy himself with the shattered console that he’s been trying to repair. Drinking away his problems and guilts seems like a much better idea.

His body swerves, successfully avoiding a punch to the face. He follows up with a fist of his own, with knuckles making brutal contact with the man’s gut. The stranger doubles back, coughing from the force and Michael plants a boot against his stomach before pushing back. The thud of the body hitting the floor, mingled with the dude’s wheezing is all but a blur in his ears. Shouts sound from the group of thugs. The alcohol in burns like an inferno in his veins, weakening his hold on his awareness and loosening his grip on reality.

“No way,” one of the men speak up. “So you are the one who slept with that fa-” The sentence is never finished, for a punch to his nose quickly shuts him up. Blood splatters against his face and Michael retracts his hand with a narrowed gaze. “Wanna keep your tongue? Watch your fucking mouth.” He snarls, his hazel eyes wild and dangerous. He could throw Connor Wright through a wall and render him immobile if this idiot lands right.

“What was his name?” Connor continues, with a cruel smirk. In the beginning, it had taken Guerin some time to remember where he’s seen Connor before and soon enough, he came to the realization that Connor Wright had been one of Kyle Valenti’s jock buddies in high school (which probably explains a lot). “A Manes boy right?”

Michael’s fist clenches until his knuckles turn white. Open beer bottles spontaneously explode from the countertop, sending pieces of glass in various directions. A few men duck, shielding their heads with their arms startled by the sudden disturbance. Confusion leaves their minds in search of an explanation but the absence of one is even more unexplainable. There’s a murmur that spreads through the group and the lack of any action leaves Michael feeling void. There’s a sense of completion and he lets it settle around him like a strangely uncomfortable blanket. These fuckers aren’t worth his time. He turns to leave and can ever so faintly hear Maria’s breath of relief from behind the countertop.

The hand firmly grips his shoulder, causing him to halt in his tracks. “Oh come on,” Connor jeers. “Don’t think I’m letting you get off that easy.” Michael can smell the stench of cigarette smoke that practically cakes the man presence. “See, people like you need to be taught a lesson about indecent morals.”

Michael steadily turns his gaze to Connor, with the rim of his black Stetson distributing a shadow across his features, emphasizing the imminent eruption in his eyes. “ ‘Indecent morals’,” he dryly chuckles before throwing his arm back to smash his elbow into the man’s face. Connor stumbles back, with a hand to his temple, spitting out a curse along with a string of colorful language.Michael outstretches his arms as he advances. “Is that what you call it?” The punch that’s delivered sends Connor sprawling onto the bar top. Maria’s already evacuated into the kitchen with her cell phone.

“I read the news,” Wright continues before another man seizes Michael from behind, attempting to wrench his arms behind his back. However, he struggles fighting back like a raging bull. Stepping back hard, he digs the heel of his shoes into the man’s toes before throwing an elbow back. The satisfying crunch of his nose bridge breaking makes a single strand of pride to Michael as the man is reeling back, spitting blood, “Motherfucker!”

“You kiss your mom with that mouth?” Michael sneers before delivering a single uppercut to down the man. The body hits the ground with a thud that seems to make the floor vibrate.

“What were you saying about ‘indecent morals’ ?” He turns to face Connor again, spinning on his heels.

The following moments are a blur of motion between exchanged blows. He barely has time to register pain as attackers hit skin and muscle with clenched fists. A solid punch is landed to his head and he feels his world cant to side. He’s swaying, with the world suddenly tilting sideways and then in the other direction. The lights around them are strangely bright and he can see little starbursts around them. Despite this, he still swings another punch. His perception fails him as he hits nothing but air. He stumbles forward, balance thrown off by his sudden misplacement of weight. However within a split second, he’s lunging forward, pinning a struggling Connor underneath him. Michael refuses to release him even as he begs. Punch after punch, Guerin’s knuckles split, but there’s no pain; only a flare of fulfillment that rises with every blow he delivers.

Alcohol mixed with adrenaline in his system makes his blood sing, high on the factor of distributing the punishment.

“Please,” Connor pathetically whimpers. Blood now coats his face from his severely broken nose and God knows what else is broken in his face by now. “Stop. Please.” Does this man even deserve forgiveness? Does he truly deserve mercy for what he’s done? “I beg you please.”

It’d be so easy to kill him, but the promise that he’s made to Isobel and Max still rings true in his drunken enraged haze. But nonetheless, there’re other ways Michael can inflict death on him other than just snapping his spine with a simple thought.like with a simple blast of telekinesis.

“Guerin.” Michelle Valenti’s tone makes him freeze for a moment, fist raised in the air ready to strike again. “Enough.” The accented tone gives the instant assumption of a Latina woman. Strong, sturdy, and commanding. “Step away.”

Michael steadily obliges. His limbs momentarily ache as he rises and steps away from Wright. Instantly, a few members of the local cops come to drag and haul Connor off the floor.Maria stands, leaning against the bar close to the kitchen, with her arms crossed over her chest and an extremely irritated expression written across her features.

Michael doesn’t need to even be instructed. Letting his knees touch the ground, he places his hands behind his head and the slight clicking of handcuffs being secured echoes in his ears. His vision sways and soon, he tilts over, rest in this head on the floor of the bar. Eyes heavy, he stares off into the distance watching as the lights seem to grow brighter. The sounds around him; the yelling and clamor of law enforcement are drowned out by the noise of his beating heart.

* * *

_“Michael please,” The voice is broken. Pained. Frightened._

_Alex._

_A hand cupped his cheek. “Hey, focus on me.” Michael’s eyes opened slowly and he blinked the blurriness out of his vision. Slowly, the form of a teenage Alex came into focus. “Come on,” Alex whispered before hauling him to his feet. A groan snapped their attention to the source and the sight of Jesse Manes, weaving in and out of consciousness slumped against a wall met them._

_“You don’t have much time,” Alex explained quickly before handing Michael a roll of bandages, gauze, and medical tape. “Get out of here.” He’s fragile in a way he’s never seen before and it made his gut twist._

_“Please.” Alex pleaded again._

_Michael only stared at him, nausea rising like a tide in his stomach. He wanted to scream and release his fury but at the same time, he’s stunned; astonished by the beauty and tragedy that was Alex Manes._

_“Leave, Michael.”_

_“Will you be okay?” Michael’s mouth felt dry and he could barely focus with the agony that pulsed through him now. Clutching his mangled hand, he could feel the blood that tickled from the twisted joints._

_Alex only leads him to the door of the shed, opening it and glancing back to him. A sorrowful smile spread across his features, “Sure.” It’s an extremely weak response that did little to even soothe his concerns. “I’ll be fine.” He managed before hustling Michael out the door. Alex watched on as he started to make his way to his truck._

_“Michael,”_

_The boy with chestnut curls stopped and gazed over his shoulder._

_“I’m sorry.” Alex hung his head with the apology and tears trekked down his cheeks, making his black eyeliner run even more. “I’m sorry.”_

_With that, he shut the door and Michael continued back to his truck. It’s not long before a pained scream reached his ears. It’s Alex; there’s no mistaking it. He flinched, forcing himself to move forward and for his feet to carry him further away from the scene. Further and further away from catastrophe and from the boy who stole his heart, only to shatter it. _

He awakens with Alex’s name on his lips and a pounding headache. A flimsy blanket has been thrown on top of him in a pretty lousy attempt to keep him comfortable. His neck has a terrible kink in it and he groans as he sits up. His body is sore, with muscles displeased with the events that unraveled the night before. Shit. Setting his eyes on the room he’s in, he finds it completely empty. There isn’t anyone in the room besides him, and the computer at the desk is booted up. Michael can faintly make out the words that are typed on a document; someone’s filing a report on what occurred last night. Just before he can summon a telekinetic force to dislodge the plug, the door swings open.

A rather pissed off Max Evans strides in, his presence filling the room. Michael should be feeling small but he puffs out his chest and rises to his feet.

“What the hell, Michael?” Max throws his hands up in the hair, closing the door behind him. A lightbulb bursts as his anger flares, with bits of power seeping through the tendrils of his control. “Can’t you just keep it together?”

“And follow the law like you?” Michael snorts. “Sorry, but I’m nothing like you. There’s gotta be one fuck up in the family and it just so happens to be lucky me.”

Max rolls his eyes before heavily exhaling, diverting his gaze to the floor. He shifts on his feet as Michael approaches the bars of the cell. “So you gonna let me out or continue to lecture me about the lawful ways you abide by? Because I can be just as annoying as you can be, but you already know that.”

There are times in his life in which Max wishes he could sow his brother’s mouth shut and this just happens to be one of them. Irritation seems to be what Michael’s good at (that and moving shit with a single thought).“I wish you talked to me.”

“We’re talking right now and quite frankly, I’m not enjoying this as much as I would if I was out of the cell.” A pause. “Are you gonna write me up a ticket that I can’t pay?”

“You already have over a dozen tickets pending that you haven’t paid up yet. This isn’t Monopoly or a contest to see who could accumulate the most tickets.”

“That’s too bad because I’d be winning at something again you. Finally.”

“Can’t you just keep yourself out of trouble for once?”

“Why should I when I have you to bail me out?”

Max groans before writing up a release form, scribbling down something on his notepad before fetching the keys. As soon as the door opens, Michael striding out without another word to the Deputy. He can feel eyes watching him with deep concentration and concern, but he shrugs it off.Michael Guerin is done with being the cause of worry; besides, he’s a basket case and no one deserves to be troubled with his situations. After all, the only one he’s ever cared for (besides his siblings) is gone, but he still can’t re-erase the imprint that’s left in his wake.

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE leave Kuddos and reviews; remember, writers thrive off of them (and I will give you a digital cookie).


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